


I Love EVERYBODY In This Corner Club!

by TourmalineQueen



Series: Rozenn the Breton [3]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Everybody drink now, F/M, Galmar and Rozenn are such an old married couple that still surprise each other, Galmar is also not especially nice in this one, Galmar's still a racist, Rozenn is a mishmash of many cultures and finally explores the non-Nord side, Rozenn the Breton, Skyrim Kinkmeme, Warning for canon-compliant racism towards elves, but Rozenn is having a positive influence on him, but Rozenn loves him anyway
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-24
Updated: 2019-08-24
Packaged: 2020-09-25 10:36:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20375371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TourmalineQueen/pseuds/TourmalineQueen
Summary: Part of my Rozenn The Breton series of fics from the Skyrim Kinkmeme.Original prompt: Any/Any Bonding over drink and/or drugsJust as it says on the label, give me some amusing drunken tales of any characters you wish to write about.If you're planning on writing a group celebration, I'd like to read about the Thieves Guild.My squicks are non-con, death of a main character (enemies are cool), mutilation, choking, sounding, slut-shaming, scat and distasteful characters of Rolff Stonefist and Degaine (unless they get humiliated).Have fun!





	I Love EVERYBODY In This Corner Club!

Galmar Stone-Fist stalked angrily through the Grey Quarter. What his delightful little wife wanted among the Greyskins he couldn't imagine, but that was where she had told her housecarl she was headed, and thus where Galmar was now obliged to go looking for her. He hoped she had not run into any kind of trouble with the unruly refugee inhabitants of the Dunmer slum - not that she was not capable of Shouting them into the middle of next month, but trouble had a way of following her around. He hesitated at the entry to the Dunmer tavern, and moved on - his little Breton preferred the Nord way of life, and he expected to find her at Candlehearth if she wanted to whet her thirst. He moved on to the used goods store, and pushed open the door.

Revyn Sadri looked up, eyes widening a little in surprise at the sight of the brother of one of his hated tormentors in the doorway, then launched into his spiel about his goods. No point in looking a gift guar in the mouth, and if the Stone-Fist wanted to drop some septims he might as well try to profit from it.

"The Breton woman," Galmar barked. "Where is she?"

"Rozenn? She came in a couple of hours ago and bought up the last case of drinks that came in from Cyrodiil that I had. Brandy, mostly, maybe some Flin. Paid good money for it, too. Would you be interested in any of my goods or wares?" Revyn replied.

"No," Galmar grunted. "She say where she was headed?"

Revyn shrugged. "I'm afraid I have a very rusty memory. Maybe I might recall if someone were to, ah, grease it?"

Galmar glared at the cheeky mer, but grudgingly admired his courage. Very few people, Nords, Greyskins or otherwise dared to cheek him. Might have something to do with the massive weapon visible over his shoulder, or the armour he was never without. Silently, Galmar reached into his pack and produced a coin purse, dropping it on the counter beside Sadri. 

Sadri's brows raised in surprise - he hadn't expected the ploy to actually work, it seemed that Rozenn's advice - stand up to his posturing and don't show fear - had actually worked! Casually, Sadri slid the purse off the counter and into his money chest, and he smiled at the Nord.

"She told me she was going to share the delicious bounty with all her friends in the Corner Club. I was about to close up shop and join her. You may come with me, if you promise not to cause any trouble. Thanks to your brother, anyone named Stone-Fist will have a hard time getting past the door, without the good word of a member of our community, you see," Sadri explained.

Galmar pinched the bridge of his nose. "Rolff, you fool," he muttered to himself, "don't burn all your bridges." He looked Sadri in the eye, judging whether it would be more or less trouble to go with the merchant mer. He nodded, "thank you."

True to his word, Sadri got into the New Gnisis Corner Club without trouble, but had to talk fast to the proprietor in order to convince him that Galmar meant no harm. The tall mer innkeeper glared at Galmar and eventually opened the door wide enough to allow him in. The sounds of revelry and merriment assaulted Galmar's ears as the door opened.

"She's over there," Ambarys said dourly, nodding in the direction of a table in the corner at which sat a large group of Dunmer, and a handful of men in Stormcloak armour, including Ralof. Atop the table, holding aloft a bottle of something... green in a toast, was Rozenn.

"I LOVE EVERYBODY IN THIS BAR!" Rozenn crowed.

The crowd cheered, sujamma and mead bottles clinking joyfully.  
Rozenn spotted Galmar in the doorway and cheered, again lifting her bottle aloft, and drinking directly from the neck of it. She giggled and beckoned him over.

"Well, Breton, it seems like you have abandoned our ways tonight," Galmar said, only partly teasing. Half expecting her to inform him that it was green, he asked, "what is it you are drinking?"

"You never seen Adamantine Absinthe before? You've been missing out!" Rozenn said, then burst into giggles as she looked down at him from the tabletop. "I'm the tall one now!"

Galmar wrapped an arm about her thighs and hoisted her off the table, letting her slide down his body. "You looked ready to fall," he said (not entirely truthfully) when she made a questioning noise.

"SADRI! Revyn, wh-where - how did you get this? I haven't had absinthe since I left my family!" Rozenn noticed the other newcomer. She lifted the bottle and toasted him. "You're the besssht merchant in Eastmarssssssh!"

Revyn perked up and grinned conspiratorially at her, "it just fell into my hands, Thane."

"A drink for Revyn Sadri!" Rozenn roared, and twisted - trying to stay pressed up against Galmar - looking for the case of bottles. Ralof handed her one, and pocketed another for himself, winking at his General as he did so.

"What? Cyrodiilic Brandy! I can't accept this," Revyn protested, one eye on Galmar, "Do you know how much one bottle of this is worth?"

"Oh, here," Rozenn said, fishing in her pocket and shoving a handful of coins at the Dunmer.

"That's not what I meant," Revyn said.

"Is it not your drink? I think there'sh some Mazte in the case, o-or-or-or-or do you prefer Flin? Ralof, is there any Flin left? Flin for Revyn! Hey, that rhyyyyyyyyymes," she broke off, giggling in a drunken, high-pitched hyena-laugh that set Galmar's teeth on edge. He was not used to Rozenn getting more than a little merry or tipsy on mead or ale. It was disconcerting.

"How much have you had, Breton? How much has she had?" Galmar asked Ralof, realising that Rozenn wouldn't be the best jusdge of her own inebriation.

"Um, I-I can't be sure," the young Nord mumbled. "That absinthe stuff's hard. Poor Erik over there passed out drunker'n a mule on just one mouthful - and his father's an innkeeper out in the sticks somewhere."

"Rorikstead," Rozenn corrected Ralof, holding up one finger and not hiccuping as she spoke (that would be rude!), "the Fruitfruit Inn is in Rorikstead. Fruitfrost. Fruitfire. Something fruity."

"And I think she's had some of that brandy, too, and maybe some of that tasty illegal whiskey, too," Ralof added, before he realised what he'd just said, "uh, I mean... not illegal. Imported. Yeah."

"The Flin's not illegal in Skyrim," Rozenn said to Ralof, sounding impatient, "it's illegal in the Empire. And maybe Skyrim. Um. Another round for Galmar!"

Galmar forced himself not to roll his eyes. He remembered Flin from his time in the Legion. His memories were both fuzzy and fond. "I'm not here to put a stop to anything," he rumbled, "I was just looking for you. I ... might have missed you. A bit."

Every single Nord and Dunmer at the table simultaneously, collectively (either sarcastically or sincerely) went, "awwwwwwwwwwwww!"

Rozenn burst into hysterical giggles again.

Galmar found himself with a bottle of Flin in his hand and a bottle of Sujamma, one of Mazte and one of Surillie's vintage wine being waved in his face. He toasted the crowd, and downed half the bottle in a gulp, sighing at the delicious burn of the whiskey. "To the Dragonborn! To Rozenn the Breton!"

The entire Corner Club took up the toast, bellowing at the tops of their lungs. Revyn was still holding the bottle of brandy, and staring at Rozenn in surprise.

"Why do you want me to have this?" 

Rozenn frowned. "Because."

"Because why?"

Galmar leaned over to him and murmured conspiratorially, "don't look a gift horse in the mouth, man! The Dragonborn is a generous creature."

"You got it for me, you got Adamantine Absinthe. Of course I'm going to share with you. You're my friend," Rozenn said, making it sound like the simplest, most obvious thing in the world.

"But you're a Stormcloak."

"I'm a Breton, raised in Cyrodiil, living in Skyrim. I know what it is to be far from home," she said sadly, sipping gently from the bottle. "I'm happy in Windhelm, but I remember being forced to live places that I had no love for and that had no love for me. And, frankly, Ulfric's an ass when it comes to his city."

The room went silent, and all eyes turned to Galmar, who shrugged. "I love the man, but th'Breton has a point. His focus is on the big picture of Skyrim's freedom, an' that means he's neglecting his own home. It won't last forever, though, and he will be the Jarl the Hold deserves again. But you didn't hear me saying any of that."

Rozenn and Ralof turned to Galmar with wide, surprised eyes. Ambarys narrowed his eyes and glared. "Very politic, for a Nord. Would you say the same thing in Candlehearth?"

"I doubt the subject would come up there," Galmar deflected, "except in terms of how Ulfric's campaign is going. Mind you, it may be of more benefit to you Dunmer that Ulfric's eyes are not on Windhelm and the Grey Quarter."

The room remained very quiet, the merriment of a few short moments ago broken by the tense direction the conversation had taken.

"You're an ass," Rozenn said, glaring at him.

Galmar shrugged. "Just because you disagree with me, does not make me an ass. More drink!"

The Nords in the room cheered and clinked their glasses and bottles, encouraging the Dunmer to follow suit. Rozenn kept staring unhappily at Galmar, sipping her absinthe occasionally.

"Look," Galmar said to her eventually, when it became painfully clear that she was no longer enjoying herself, "you weren't raised to our ways, our beliefs. You see things differently than Ulfric and I do. That won't change. What might change is little things. Maybe we put Brunwulf Free-Winter in charge of city policies when Ulfric becomes High King and has to focus on the whole province all the time."

"If," came at least three voices, including Ambarys'.

Rozenn glared at Ambarys and took a step towards him. Galmar placed a hand on her shoulder to stop her. "Are you going to fight with everyone, tonight?"

"Maybe not with Erik," she said, huffing a breath of amusement, and slipping her arms about Galmar's waist. "Take me back to Hjerim?"

"Only if you promise to behave. No funny business with Rolff watching," Galmar replied, winking to show he was teasing.

Rozenn reached down to the case of bottles, now nearly empty, and grabbed two more bottles, one of Flin and one of something red, handing the Flin to Galmar and keeping the red stuff for herself.

"Enjoy, lads," she instructed the assembled Nords and Dunmer, "and don't let Ambarys charge you for anything out of this case! Ralof, will you keep an eye on Erik?"

Ralof nodded, "he won't come to harm with me."

"Revyn?" Rozenn said softly. The mer looked up at her, red eyes suspiciously bright. She nodded to the brandy, which sat in front of him, untouched, "enjoy it, friend. It's good for what ails you. Just... watch out for the hangover if you drink it all in one go." Revyn chuckled lightly at that.

Then Rozenn and Galmar were in the streets of the Grey Quarter, under a starry sky, and Rozenn was trying not to slip on frosty patches on the cobblestones, as she weaved in a valiant attempt to keep upright. The cold air seemed to help them both sober up a bit. Galmar felt pleasantly warmed inside from the half-bottle of Flin he had drunk, and from the warmth of the Breton walking beside him. Although, he did wonder...

As they crossed the graveyard, Galmar needed to speak up. "Do you miss it? Breton culture? Or Imperial?"

"Hm?" Rozenn started slightly, she seemed as if she had been miles away. "No, not really. But sometimes I really want a sweetroll the way they're made in the Imperial City. Or I crave Adamantine Absinthe. If I were to leave Skyrim I'd miss Honningbrew mead and taffy treats."

"Hmm," Galmar wasn't sure he believed her.

"Did you never wonder how such a tiny little woman could handle her mead so well? Mead's like water in comparison. And absinthe's sweeter than anything you've ever tried. This," she said, indicating the red stuff, "is Direnni Absinthe. It is so sweet, the sugar is like needles stabbing your tongue and throat. If I take this I won't remember the rest of the week, it's so potent. But it's something I was raised on. 

"And... Just don't ever try black absinthe. Only kings and courtiers can handle that. Some distant relative of mine was a taster in the King's court in Daggerfall, a few generations ago. We still tell tales of how he lost an entire month of his life after tasting the King's black absinthe for poison. And nobody could be sure if it was poison or not until the second taster tried it. Apparently during his blackout month my great-great-great-grand-uncle-twice-removed sired five children to five different women. And learned the Ancient Akavir tongue, and penned some of the most influential Breton poetry ever recited, but assumed a nom-de-plume to do it.

"It's..." Rozenn paused as she searched for the house key, and the right turn of phrase. "It's a Breton thing. And sometimes I like being a Breton instead of Dragonborn. And I happen to like the Dunmer of Skyrim. And I don't like how they're treated here. So I wanted to treat them the way I'd like to be treated. As I recall, you compared me to an elf when I displayed my magecraft - and not in a good way."

"I... May have changed my opinion of you since that day," Galmar said, sheepishly. He fished out his own key and opened the door to Hjerim. "And I didn't know you heard that."

"I love you, Galmar Stone-Fist, you know that. But I also love me."

"I'm not surprised. I do, too."

"And sometimes, because I love me, I need to be me. A Breton raised under Imperial influence, not just a small, wannabe-Nord," she said softly, a smile tipping one side of her lips up.

"I've never met the Breton-raised-in-Cyrodiil side of you," Galmar pointed out. "I only know the Nordling."

"I think you'll like her," Rozenn replied, walking up a few stairs and turning to kiss Galmar openmouthed.

"I'm inclined to agree," Galmar growled, and picked Rozenn up and carried her to their bed.

**Author's Note:**

> I've heard stories about black absinthe and red absinthe from connoisseurs among my friends, and I thought having such a small female being able to hold her liquor with the hardest-drinking of Nords needed an explanation


End file.
